


Murder Partridges

by Maï-Maktês (KikiMorah)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Gore, I'm subverting Xmas, Kitsune, Mayhem, Porn with Violence, lots of snark, mostly and excuse for a gigantic Spike wankfest, s4, you know how it goes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28360671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KikiMorah/pseuds/Ma%C3%AF-Makt%C3%AAs
Summary: Ho, ho, ho. ‘Tis the season to be… bloody.It’s the last Christmas of the Century, and for Spike, it’s high time to deck the halls of the Initiative with gore and entrails. And Buffy? If she has to listen to Last Christmas one more time, she might just join him.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 9
Kudos: 39





	Murder Partridges

**Author's Note:**

> This fic features awesome art I’m proud to flaunt. The banner made of tear-inducing awesomeness is by Dirtyaim, and the smokin’ hot Spike art inside is courtesy of Grief Counseling.

*░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** ° **░** ° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░*

THE INITIATIVE — 23RD DECEMBER 1999

*░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░*

Buffy watched Walsh’s eyes glinting as the professor pushed the incineration button and drowned the arena in flames. The monster inside kept howling, stubbornly refusing to dust.

The vampire selected for tonight’s Frankensteiny tests had been a barely-turned fledge, a girl who’d probably been around Buffy’s age when she died. She’d cried as the soldiers dragged her to the arena, her blond hair trailing behind her on the floor.

Weirdly, Buffy had thought of Harmony. Not that she felt any sense of kinship with that bubblehead, but it had been a strange feeling, imagining this happening to a vampire she knew. Someone who’d gone to school with her.

The Initiative’s little serum was progressing. Not only were the vampires faster, stronger, and nastier, but they were now apparently fire-resistant as well. Buffy discovered the worst part of being burned alive — or, well, conscious —was when the lungs and esophagus caught fire. The… thing, because Buffy couldn’t bring herself to regard it as a ‘her’ anymore, was still writhing on the floor, torturous yells coming up from its blackened maw as the raging inferno surrounded it.

It took a long time to die.

Maggie Walsh wrote her observations on her precious clipboard and dismissed Buffy with a wave. “That will be all for tonight, Agent Summers. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes, Professor.” Buffy pivoted sharply and left the control room on unsteady feet.

This madness had started last week, after her little post-Gentlemen talk with Riley. She’d gone straight to Giles with the new information, and the gang had decided that learning more about the Initiative was priority _numero uno_. But then Giles had concocted this ridiculous plan of her infiltrating the military and things had gone downhill.

Buffy’s feelings about it had been lukewarm at best. Playing Mata Hari? So not her thing. Still, she had done her best to ingratiate herself into Maggie Walsh’s good graces, earning herself the snazzy title of ‘Vampire Consultant’. Which consisted of watching _all_ the nasty little experiments on vampires. Yay. Lucky Buffy.

Welp, they sure had taken care of her hero complex for her teacher. Sure, vampires deserved a good staking, but _this_? This wasn’t right. This wasn’t about neutralizing threats, nuh-huh. It was all about perfecting a serum to make vampires more dangerous. Once dosed, they mutated and turned into drooling beasts, blind and rabid.

Giles wanted to wait another week, to collect more info, but Buffy was getting itchy. Every day spent working undercover increased her the heebie-jeebies, and that was without considering the other issue.

Spike.

The real crumbly part in her Watcher’s kooky-cookie plan.

At the time, Giles had argued that Buffy’s keenness to join the Initiative would be more convincing if she could bring something to solidify her claims, say, an escapee HST. Spike, of course, had severely lacked interest in any of this, but Giles had gone all carrot and stake on the vampire, dangling both the promise of _mucho dinero_ and the threat of having him permanently relocated to Xander’s, so Spike had folded like wet cardboard.

Buffy had protested. Why should she accept this obviously doomed plan? Because she was a good, obedient Slayer? Hah. Obedience took a hike the moment her Watcher decided to include Spike in his plan. She’d argued that ‘Spike and strategy’ spelled ‘disaster’. It _literally_ did. She’d checked, reordering the letters in her head and everything.

But, well. Her conscience had objected, somewhere. This wouldn’t be her first truce with Spike, after all. He’d taken care of his end of the bargain before with Angelus and Drusilla. Mostly. So maybe, maybe… It could work. She, too, had joined Spike in the wet-cardboard corner. Damn Giles and his superpowers: Rhetoric and the Disappointed Look.

And at first, Buffy hadn’t really cared about what might happen to Spike, but now, one week later? She was getting worried.

Her mind flashed back to the Not-Harmony vampire, crying as the orderlies injected her with the serum. She’d begged the Slayer to stake her instead. Buffy hadn’t moved a muscle as the transformation happened, afraid that if she moved at all, the bile at the back of her throat would spill over.

Yeah, better drop by Spike’s to see how he was doing.

As she slid her keycard through the lock leading to his cell, a gratingly familiar song reached her ears. She sighed. She really, _really_ hated the fucked-up logic of the Initiative. Maggie Walsh had to be the weird love-child of Doctor Moreau and Bozo the Clown.

_Last Christmas_

_I gave you my heart_

She crossed the threshold and snuck to the left; the surveillance camera’s blind spot. In the furthest corner of his solitary cell, Spike was yelling himself hoarse at the ceiling, engaged in a decibel-output challenge with the speakers blaring Wham!.

“…ignorant Yankee tossers, Christmas as you know it is a goddam capitalist construction, it has nothing to do with religion. Stop thinking Christmas songs hurt vampires!” He spun around and furiously booted the glass partition, making it rattle. Buffy snorted. Better the glass than her. Spike could kick like a mule.

“I don’t think they care,” she piped up. “They just want to drive you crazy with the jingling.”

Spike spotted her and turned around.

“It’s working, pet.” He had to yell, to drown out George Michael’s syrupy voice. “This is bad enough, but I might go bonkers if I have to listen to that daft Mariah cow one more time.”

Buffy started laughing before catching herself. Crap. Another sign that the Initiative-induced cabin fever was getting to her: she was growing fond of Spike.

Well, not ‘let’s-whittle-each-other’s-stakes’ _fond,_ but still.

With his ex-escapee-status, Spike had been put in a high-security cell, in solitary, which clearly made him miserable. He was, Buffy had learned, a social animal. Seeing him so mopey had pulled at her pity strings. She really was too soft for this job, if Spike being a weird bastion of normal in this fucked-up adventure was enough to mellow her out.

She’d pried Walsh off his back a couple of times already. _“Hostile17? He’s not very strong. And barely taller than me. Also, you already chipped him. Go for 63, instead. He’s nearly 7ft tall. Grr!”_

Spike was a pest, sure. But truce aside, he was _her_ pest to kill. They had history and whatnot. There would be no serum-induced yellow eyes and fiery-incinerator death for Spike, not when she had a stake with his name on it somewhere.

“How long d’you think this is gonna last?” Spike asked, giving her a sideways glance.

“The music? No clue. But I’m trying to convince Giles to end this shitshow after Christmas.” The vampire gave her a blank stare. “It’s the 23rd.”

“Is that right?” He shoved off the wall, suddenly interested. “I didn’t know. Time goes wonky in here.” He thrust his fists in his jeans pockets and crossed the cell toward her, stopping a hairbreadth away from the glass. “Got a pressie for your mum?” he inquired after a beat, his clear-blue eyes boring into hers.

“Um… Yeah, I bought her a necklace.”

Spike nodded, rolling his shoulders. Wow. He was mega jittery tonight.

“What kind? She likes topaz best.”

Buffy frowned. “Okay, first, how do you know that? And second, couldn’t you have told me last week?”

He shrugged, “We had a talk over cocoa one day, about Dru and jewelry. Your mum told me she was a topaz girl.”

“Huh.” Spike and Mom, bosom friends. Ugh.

Bruce Springsteen’s _Santa Claus_ started next and yep, that was her cue to leave.

“See you tomorrow, Spike. Be a good little vamp and I might not stake you.”

He touched a knuckle to his brow in mock salute. “Slayer, yes, Slayer. Don’t let the door hit your pert rump on the way out.”

Still smiling as she stepped out of the corridor, Buffy turned the corner a bit too sharply and nearly bumped into… Riley Finn. As he stared down at her, mouth slack in surprise, she could see some unknown emotion flickering in his eyes. It died down almost immediately.

“Careful, these are explosives!” he thundered at the soldiers behind him, stumbling under the weight of a large wooden crate. “Hurry up, we’ve got more to do, and I have a flight in one hour.”

He barely spared her a glance and plowed on, the tottering soldiers trailing after him. Buffy frowned. From the day she’d joined the Initiative, right after the Gentlemen’s fight, Riley had started avoiding her and she’d felt crummy about it. Now, though? She wouldn’t touch Riley Finn with a 10-foot pole. Anything Initiative-related made her want to hurl.

Enough dilly-dallying. She needed to change out of her stupid fatigues and deal with patrol. This whole double-shift thing was running her ragged. Soon she’d be forgetting things left and right.

*░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░*

Maggie Walsh shut down the microphone on Corridor Delta. As she had suspected from the start, Agent Summers was consorting with Hostile 17. Ordering Agent Finn to stay away from the girl had been the right decision.

Maggie had grown even more suspicious when the girl tried to keep the HST out of experiments. She had pretended to heed the girl’s counsel to better observe her.

Every night Agent Summers visited the hostile’s cell. Sometimes she did not stop for long, but sometimes… She lingered. The scheming girl was always careful to stay out of camera range, too. Not to be outdone by a schoolgirl, Maggie installed a stealth camera and a microphone.

This had proved enlightening.

It was time to bring Hostile 17 out to play. Maggie had a new serum to test and progress was required. Adam was going to be operational soon, and her beloved project needed an army ready to do his bidding. Even if the serum did not yield the expected results, it would not be a total loss. Maybe watching the HST die in the arena would knock some sense into the mutinous girl and remind her who exactly was in charge. Tomorrow would be ideal with half the base deserted. Maggie would keep a handful of her least bright and most obedient soldiers on staff and do things her way.

*░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** ° **░** ° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░*

CHRISTMAS EVE

*░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░*

Bollocks. Today they’d put Paul McCartney’s _Wonderful Christmas Time_ on repeat and after five loops, Spike was close to snapping. It was the Casio keyboard that was driving him batty. And the _constant_ jingling.

“I swear no harm will come to you, Spike!” he mock-trilled in the Slayer’s voice. “I will watch over you like a hawk!” he went on, mimicking her Valley Girl pitch, hands wiggling in the air.

He closed his fists and snarled, then punched the wall, cracking the tiles.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Music aside, his stay at the Initiative sucked less this time around. At least they fed him. Also, the chats with the Slayer were nice. Ish.

They’d warmed up a bit to each other over the past week. And sure, she amused him with her bubble-gum Californian bounce, but that was just the surface. Shallow waters and all that rot. She was fascinating to watch, really. But the Slayer wouldn’t be around for some hours yet and for now, his only company was old Paul, banging away at the keyboard like a loon. Spike clenched his jaws so tight his teeth ached.

Something was off today. They’d given him three packs of blood instead of one. Human blood. He couldn’t shake off the anxiety that gnawed at him like a goddam gremlin.

Trying to block out the music, he started doing push-ups to pass the time and soothe his frayed nerves. He felt cornered in there. Naked in his rat cage. Like a plonker, he’d left his duster at the Watcher’s for safekeeping, and now he sorely missed it.

He’d moved on to handstands when the music died down. Hearing the pneumatic door of the corridor slide open, Spike tumbled smoothly back to his feet and faced his visitor. Ah. The head honcho in the flesh with a smattering of her bullyboys, armed to the teeth.

“Hostile 17,” she greeted dryly.

“Senile harridan,” Spike nodded, aping her military tone.

With a flash of a keycard, the Professor opened his cell and stepped in, closely followed by her khaki armada.

“I have been observing you for a while,” she went on. “I think you can be of help to me.”

Spike vamped out and smiled. “Over my cold, dead body.”

The mean old baggage gave him a thin, satisfied smirk. “That is the plan.”

Then one of the blighters tased him and everything went black.

*░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░*

Walsh greeted Buffy with a pointed look at the clock. “You are late, Agent Summers.”

“Sorry I have a life and tried to spend a bit of Christmas Eve with my mom,” muttered Buffy under her breath.

“What was that?”

“Sorry I’m late Professor Walsh,” she amended meekly.

Walsh bobbed her head, a magnanimous queen forgiving her unruly subject. “We have a new serum to test tonight.”

“Ah-huh,” nodded Buffy distractedly. Hopefully, this one would be over fast, like that one time the vampire’s head exploded five minutes into the experiment. Man, had that been weird. And splattery. Yeah, fast was good. She’d wish a merry jingly Christmas to Spike, do a quick patrol, and be home around midni—

“Bring in Hostile 17.”

Buffy’s head whipped around at Walsh’s order, mouth open to protest, but the control room door banged open to let a gurney wheel through. To her horror, Spike was strapped to it, swearing like a sailor as one of the orderlies tried unsuccessfully to clamp a gag over his mouth.

“Professor,” Buffy rushed to say, “as we already discussed, I don’t think Hostile 17 is a very good subject for—”

“Oh, but it is, Agent Summers.” Walsh gave her a reptilian smile. “You have protected it long enough.”

_Protec…_ Walsh knew. Crap. This was a whole new shit bucket. Buffy needed to get Spike and herself out of here, double-quick.

As Walsh retreated behind her desk and the orderlies finished gagging the vampire, Buffy crept closer to the gurney. Her worried gaze met Spike’s panicked one, and she tried to convey reassurance. Their strength combined should be more than enough to break his restraints, and then she could overpower Walsh and the rest while he fled. Easy peasy, vampire no-dusty.

The door of the control room slid open and five soldiers filed in, guns at the ready, awaiting instructions.

Walsh motioned toward her. “Take her away from the Hostile.”

Shit. Peas were being difficult.

Buffy quickly disarmed the first two grunts, but the others rushed her, weapons pointed at her head. Behind the gurney, one orderly was measuring up the serum into a syringe. She would never make it in time with the soldiers hindering her.

Desperate, she pivoted toward the professor. “Don’t! Wait, please—”

“Please?” Walsh scoffed. She turned away to address the orderly. “Proceed with the injection.”

Spike vamped out and easily bit through the mouth restraint with a roar.

“You tossers, what are you going to do to me?”

“Quick!” barked Walsh, “The serum!”

A ragged “No!” tore its way out of Buffy’s mouth. Her head was spinning, everything was happening too fast. She could only watch as they plunged the syringe deep in Spike’s pale arm, who lost his bumpies and stared at her, blue eyes wide with shock.

The orderly retreated and it was over. She saw Spike’s body spasm as the serum kicked in.

Buffy’s throat constricted. This wasn’t right. Spike was supposed to die fighting against her when he was himself, not a mindless, slavering beast. He’d always played by the rules, even if they were his own strange, fucked-up rules.

Spike must have realized this didn’t bode well. He gave her a cynical smile.

“Guess it’s the end of the road for me, Slayer,” he wheezed through clenched teeth. “It’s a bit lacking as far as grand finales go, eh? Wish it could have been you instead.”

Buffy choked on something that was absolutely not the start of a sob. This was so much worse than the vampire begging for death yesterday. This was _Spike._ Who had hot cocoa with her mom and stored somewhere in his thick head that she liked topaz jewelry as if it was relevant data.

She shook her head. No. Not him. Not like _that_!

His eyes, the only things alive on his ashen face, were still anchored to hers. They were already turning yellow.

“Hey ducks, none of that now,” he croaked, voice shaky. “You give them hell for me, yeah?”

Her eyes prickled and she stepped toward the gurney. The soldiers around her were yelling something, but she didn’t listen. All her attention was on Spike.

Tremors wracked his body. He gnashed his teeth, elongating fangs nicking his lips. Still, his eyes remained focused on hers. She was so close she could see the worry swirl in them amongst the flecks of gold.

“It’s not your fault, Slayer. So don’t cry, yeah?”

The moron was worried about _her_. He knew he was done for but he sweated about her.

“And—” The words turned into a garbled cry as Walsh tased him.

“Stop it!” Buffy yelled, kicking and elbowing the soldiers dragging her away. She felt the cold muzzle of a gun digging into the back of her head and she finally stilled.

Walsh was motioning dismissively toward the door. “Wheel it to the arena.”

As the orderlies obediently took Spike away, Buffy spun around to face the professor, heedless of the soldiers’ guns still trained on her. “Why the arena? He can’t defend himself with the chip!”

Walsh looked at her as if she was a slow child. “Of course it can fight. The chip differentiates between humans and Hostiles.”

Buffy opened and closed her mouth, stunned. “But… But he doesn’t know that!”

Walsh brought her clipboard out. “Let’s see how long it takes it to find out, then.”

*░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░*

Spike had known what was going to happen from the moment he’d woken up strapped to the gurney. It took more than solitary confinement to put a damper on the demonic rumor mill. Also, he wasn’t as thick as he let on.

Even if the Slayer had tried to avoid mentioning the experiments, he’d pieced things together after a couple of talks with her. For her to be unsettled about vampires dying, it had to be ugly.

Spike was strangely resigned about it all. Eh, maybe it was fate. Or, well, Sod’s law. Dru first, then the chip. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t have much left to look forward to in his unlife. Spike was the first to admit it: he had a short attention span and he was in it mostly for the fun stuff and instant gratification. But, fun had packed its little bags and buggered off some time ago now. If this was how things were supposed to be from here on, well, thank you very much, but no. Spike wasn’t going to live a half-unlife like his sodding grandsire. It was all or nothing and if he couldn’t have it all? He’d choose nothing.

He’d been quite resolved, but then he’d seen the Slayer’s eyes fill with tears, looking like her too-big heart was caught in her throat, and he’d felt his own dead heart flop about. He’d had the urge to comfort her, to let her know this wasn’t her cross to bear. Gratuitous insults to destabilize her when they were facing off was one thing, adding to her martyr complex like a twat when he had nothing to gain from it was another matter.

He could feel the serum coursing through his veins now, rearranging his metabolism, slashing at his flesh with white-hot bursts of pain. He writhed on the gurney, howling, and the orderlies started running, wheeling him along faster. He could feel his bones grind against each other, a belt of pain coiled around his brow. His vision blurred. The agony gave him the strength of desperation, and he finally managed to rip his left arm free. Spike clawed at his restraints on the other side, but it was too late. The panicked bellends were already shoving the gurney through a large door and running away as if the demons of hell were nipping at their heels. Which, if what he’d heard about the serum was true, was going to be pretty accurate in a couple of minutes.

The gurney whizzed along, rocking on its wheels, and Spike jackknifed, tipping it over onto the ground in a clatter of metal. He finished ripping at the restraints and sat up slowly, dizzy with pain.

Something was wrong with his eyes, the light hurt. He cradled his head in his hands, moaning. The pain receded a bit and he blinked blearily, inspecting the surroundings. There was a blinding halo effect, and his focus was shot to hell, making him muzzy. He screwed his eyes shut and waited a bit.

Everything was too loud, the sounds of the gurney wheels slowly spinning, deafening. Spike could hear the hum of speech coming from the control room through the thick glass. OK, so, sight fucked, but hearing more acute. He blinked, finding his eyesight stabilized. He got up to his feet, legs shaking. All his bones were hurting. He bounced on the balls of his feet a couple of times, testing his coordination, and grimaced in pain.

He cracked his neck a couple of times and tried to vamp out. Nothing happened. He focused and tried again, in vain. Huh. This would be problematic.

He tongued one of his upper fangs, finding its edge quite blunt. His new canines were a bit longer than his human ones, but nowhere near as sharp as his vamp fangs.

He didn’t understand… the serum was supposed to completely obliterate him. Why was he still standing and thinking and… _But of course_. Realization dawned on him. He sighed.

Amateurs, the lot of them.

*░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░*

In the control room, things were tensely quiet. Buffy, body stiff with dread, had her eyes fixated on Spike, who was shuffling unsteadily around the arena. He hadn’t started grunting and frothing at the mouth yet. Was this new serum slower-acting?

“What is happening?” barked Walsh at a meek-looking scientist. “I specifically asked for a strong dose for this subject. Did you follow my orders?”

“Yes, Professor,” the man answered with a tremulous voice, looking like a kid in his big white coat. “This serum was supposed to be more potent, I don’t understand what’s—”

“ _Let me guess, you incompetent tosspots,”_ Spike’s voice filtered in, crackling through the intercom. He was facing the control room, head cocked to the side. “ _You only tried that shit on fledges, right?”_

Walsh’s eyes flashed up to hers. “What does he mean?”

Buffy ignored her, trying instead to process what was happening. Spike was still coherent? Well, if a vampire could withstand an enhancing-drug cocktail that atomized weaker specimens, it’d be Spike alright. The fledges couldn’t deal with the sudden influx of power, but Spike? Power was his thing. He’d been getting jiggy with it since his first Slayer kill.

The road to hell was truly paved with the Initiative’s little inventions. God knew what they’d just turned Spike into...

She gave Walsh a weary look: “You have no idea what you just unleashed.”

The professor scoffed and motioned to the scientist. “Proceed with the tests. Start with the holy water.”

As if he’d heard Walsh’s order, Spike dove for the gurney even before the sprinklers started. But it was too far away for cover, and he got drenched in a matter of seconds. He curled into himself and Buffy bit her lip, remembering the ubervamp’s pockmarked skin yesterday after the same experiment, dreading to see Spike’s skin marred with red boils.

Buffy squinted. His shoulders were shaking. He was… laughing?

Turning toward the control room, with a look Buffy could have sworn was sent her way, Spike tipped his head back and let the holy water rain over his face. Slowly, almost sensually, he ran his fingers through his hair, dislocating the last bits of gel still there after a week of detention. He stood there, soaking it in until the sprinklers stopped. They’d probably wasted all their stock, the idiots.

“ _I’m not gonna lie_ ,” his familiar drawl buzzed through the intercom, “ _this smarts a bit. But then again, we vampires tend to live on the edge of pain._ ”

He shook the water out of his hair and grabbed the bottom of his t-shirt, making a show of raising the hem above his flat stomach and wringing the water out of it. “ _Thanks, now I feel real clean, washed of my sins and all._ ”

Buffy tsked at his theatrics. Why did he have to always be so… provocative? His skin was slightly pink, but she could see no burns from where she was. She wished she could see better.

Sucking at his teeth, Spike gave the control room a sidelong glance. “ _What’s next, pussycats?_ ”

=^ **.** ^=

Half an hour later, Spike was still taunting Walsh from the middle of the arena. He’d been nonplussed by the UV rays — _“Hey! I might freckle, after all!”_ — and the cross catapults had just made him laugh hysterically. He’d caught a crucifix between his teeth, doing lewd things with his tongue. The mechanical stake throwers had been a joke as well, Spike snatching the projectiles out of the air before they could even reach his heart.

His balance and coordination were improving by the minute, Buffy evaluated. He was fast now. Like, really fast. And judging by the dents he’d left on the walls? His strength was no joke either. This was the Amara gem all over again, only worse.

Walsh’s fingers tightened around her pen until her knuckles turned white.

As Spike continued showboating, batting stakes away as if they were flies, one of the grunts stepped forward. “Professor, do you want us to go in to incapacitate and stake him?”

Walsh studied her lieutenant, seemingly on the fence.

“You let your soldiers in,” Buffy shrugged, “I can’t guarantee they’ll step out in one piece.”

The soldiers still training their weapons at her head twitched with affronted military dignity, but she couldn’t care less. Walsh gave her a contemptuous look. “The HST is chipped.”

Buffy’s lips thinned and she hummed her disapproval. “Something tells me it won’t slow him down much.”

Walsh waited a bit more, then leaned toward the interphone. “Administer yesterday’s serum to five vampires and drop them in the arena.”

*░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░*

Now that he was back on track, Spike was getting bored out of his skull. He’d tested the walls with a couple of kicks already, but these fuckers were thick. The door was ironclad, so that didn’t leave him much hope, either. He was pretty sure the control room’s window was bullet-poof. Then again, who knew. They were all pretty daft in here.

He was sitting cross-legged on the gurney when he heard a panel slide open in the ceiling over him. Bodies tumbled through, hitting the floor with grunts of pain. Spike craned his head up, looking at the trapdoor sliding shut. He narrowed his eyes. The ceiling wasn’t that high, maybe 10 or 11 feet.

His attention swung back to the newcomers. Vampires, his nose told him, but something was off. Yellow and dull-eyed, drool running down their fangs. Fledges on the juice, then. They were getting up.

Spike jumped swiftly off the gurney and stiffened, observing the situation.

A couple of fledges were not interested in him. One just stood there slobbering while the other started headbutting a wall. But the other three had their flat, beady eyes on him and were closing in. Spike was fast, faster now, but dodging forever would not be an option.

One of the vamps lunged at him and Spike ducked, but another dove in at the same time, pawing at his arm. He shook the fledge off a bit too roughly and jumped back, waiting for the kickback of the chip…

…Which didn’t come. Mind spinning, Spike analyzed his options. Well, there was only one way to check.

Taking a running leap toward a fledge, Spike pulled his arm back and brought his fist down on the monster’s nose. As his knuckles crushed the ridged brow, he felt no pain, just the pleasant crunch of hard bones caving soft cartilage in. Blood spurted from the pulverized nostrils and Spike let out a whoop of joy.

“Hell yeah!”

He hit the floor running and dove to grab one of the many stakes littering the floor. Without breaking his pace, he lopped back toward the closest target and plunged the stake deep in its chest. Nothing happened.

“What the fuck?”

If things could stop going arse over tits tonight, that’d be nice.

He heard urgent banging coming from the control room and he pivoted toward it, trying to keep an eye on the advancing Franken-fledges at the same time. The Slayer was standing in front of the glass panel, yelling something. Dodging fists flying his way, Spike strained his hearing to make out what she was saying.

He slowly got the picture. These stakes were not big enough. He needed to punch the whole heart out. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Slayer drop as a soldier rammed the butt of his weapon to her chin. Spike winced in sympathy. The poor bugger didn’t know who he’d just picked a fight with. Seconds later, his keen ears picked up the sounds of a squaddie squealing like a stuck pig, and Spike sniggered.

So. Back to his own little problem. If stakes didn’t work, Spike would have to go at it the old-fashioned way.

He felt a rush of adrenaline. He could _fight_. He had the absurd urge to burst into song, but the only tunes coming to him were the daft Christmas carols they’d fed him all morning.

Standing straighter, he appraised the three vamps trudging toward him. Right. He’d pick them off one by one, not an issue. He’d just have to get in the swing of things.

He started humming under his breath. “On the first day of Christmas…”

Taking a step back and spinning on his heels, he dove to the right.

“My true love sent to me…”

The Frankenfledge on this side was slower, lagging. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, it’d be the first to go.

“A partridge in a pear tree!” Spike trilled as he launched himself straight at his target. He landed smack dab in its middle, elbow first, digging into its soft, unprotected stomach.

“On the second day of Christmas,” he kept singing as he used his momentum to tackle the fledge to the ground, “My true love sent to me…”

In one fluid movement, Spike straddled it and straightened his fingers for a knifehand strike-attack.

“Two punctured lungs,” he roared as he rammed both hands up the vampire’s chest, under the ribs. His fingers were so much stronger now, making ribbons of the lung tissue as he punched through them to reach the heart. He grunted, straining further in. Underneath him, the thing was thrashing, clawing at his shoulders and tearing his t-shirt to shreds, but Spike ignored it. He took his sweet time securing his hold over the slippery unbeating muscle with both hands and heaved hard, feeling the aorta and the pulmonary arteries tear. With a roar of joy, he finished ripping the heart out of the fledge’s chest.

“And a partridge in a fucking pear tree!” he crowed jubilantly. The thing at his feet didn’t dust but it had definitely stopped moving, so Spike wagered he’d done it in. He blithely threw the heart behind his shoulder and turned toward the next target, picking up his singing with gusto.

“On the third day of Christmas…”

He jumped the fledge from the side and brought it to its knees swiftly with a well-placed, vicious kick across the patella, hearing it crunch.

“My true love sent to me…”

Spike grabbed its hair, snaking his other hand around to clutch at its chin. Bracing a foot on its shoulder, Spike pulled with all his strength.

“Three severed heads,” he cheered as the head tore off way too easily.

Huh.

“Two punctured lungs…”

Either these things were made of cotton candy or he’d been given a serious strength upgrade.

“And a fucking partridge in a pear tree!”

Heh. Both worked.

“On the fourth day of Christmas…”

*░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░*

Buffy ignored her aching jaw and gawked. That was it, Spike had finally snapped.

He was soaked in blood, running around and belting this stupid mockery of a carol like a… like a murdery...

_“And a fucking partridge in a pear tree!”_ came his chortling voice through the loudspeaker.

Buffy didn’t know what partridges were like, exactly, but Spike sure did look bird-of-preyish right now. He was flying from one target to another and killing them as he landed on them.

He was a great big murder-partridge. It was mesmerizing, in a very disgusting way.

As Spike made mincemeat of the ubervamps, Buffy surveyed Walsh. The older woman was shaking slightly, brief tremors wracking her from head to toe. Buffy couldn’t decide if it was from fear or excitement.

When there was only one ubervamp left standing in the arena, Walsh pushed down an intercom button. “Bring all demons to the arena.”

There was a brief silence on the other side. “ _Professor, please confirm the order._ All _demons?_ ”

“Yes!” she snapped. “All the demons above category 3!”

A few moments later, the arena doors opened, and a handful of demons rushed in. Some Buffy knew, some she’d never seen before. If this little stunt in the Initiative was good for one thing, she reflected, it was broadening her demon horizon. As if she needed it.

Spike stepped away from the vamp he’d been about to slay, his body radiating with wariness. He probably had doubts whether the chip would ignore demons too. A Grappler charged him, tusks out. Spike evaded it easily, twirling aside, smooth as a rope of black and white silk, and brought the edge of his hand down in a chop over the demon’s neck. The Grappler stumbled to the ground, stunned, but Spike didn’t even twitch. Buffy couldn’t see his face from where she was, but she heard the laughter in his voice when he picked up his stupid song.

“ _On the seventh day of Christmas…_ ”

Now that she could stop worrying about him, her gaze swung back to the soldiers surrounding her. Five weapons were trained to her head, and the grunts looked a bit trigger-happy from the increasingly strained atmosphere in the room. She could disarm a couple of them and duck, but she couldn’t make it out of there without copping up at least a bullet or two. Her only hope was for Spike to do something flashy enough to distract them.

Great. Now she was eager for Spike’s pretentious strutting. What next, would she break into a cheerleading routine for him? Gimme an S, — for Show off — Gimme a P,— for Pain in the Neck— Gimme…

The control room door creaked open, sidetracking her.

A tall silhouette was standing on the threshold. The thing had probably been a man at some point, but now? It was a patchwork of flesh and metal. The whole room froze, all eyes fixed on the intruder.

A clattering sound broke the spell. Walsh had dropped her precious clipboard to the ground and turned white as a sheet. “Adam,” she bumbled. The creepy, beatific smile on her face turned Buffy’s blood to ice.

The thing turned malevolent eyes to the professor. “Hello, Mother.”

*░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░*

Spike was having a problem.

He was elbow-deep in the demon’s chest but couldn’t find its heart. This was putting a cramp in his style. Worse, he was going to lose the plot of the song.

_Once again, from the bottom._

There was the liver, with its sleek texture. And then the lungs, all grainy under his fingertips. Where was the goddamn heart? The demon grunted its obvious discontent at the innards-rummaging, dribbling blood all over Spike’s shoulder. It couldn’t do much else, as Spike’s first move had been to break its arms.

"Yeah, well, I do what I can, mate. I only got two hands," Spike said with a grunt, pushing his left arm deeper and using his right to keep the guts inside the demon’s stomach. Dextro viscera were acidic as fuck and he didn’t want to ruin his boots.

And then it hit him. Of course, a Dextro. Their heart was on the _right_. “Spike, old cock, you’re slipping,” he muttered to himself.

He swiftly found the thumping muscle on the right and crushed it in his fist. With a last spray of blood down Spike’s shoulder, the Dextro finally dropped. Wiping his slick, bloody arm on his t-shirt, Spike looked around. Shit. Where had he stopped? Nine or Ten?

He spotted an Haxil beast loitering just behind him and decided to go with the flow.

He pirouetted, doing a handstand in front of the beast. He flipped forward, hooking his knees on its shoulders, and heaved himself upright in a smooth movement.

“On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me…”

Now comfortably seated on the Haxil’s wide shoulders, his crotch in its face, Spike grabbed at the horns with both hands and twisted until he heard the neck crack. As the beast tumbled down, Spike leaped from his perch and landed promptly on his feet, picking up the song almost without a beat.

“Ten broken necks, nine crushed hearts…”

He circled to the last ubervamp, who was blindly mauling a Polgara.

“Eight mashed balls, Seven ruptured —”

Spike stopped dead in his tracks when he heard gunfire coming in rapid, automatic bursts from the control room.

*░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░*

It was official, Buffy hated guns. They were noisy and stupid.

Another thing was official, the situation sucked. After the Tin Can Man had killed Walsh — Walsh, who’d tottered toward it arms extended and who’d gotten promptly skewered for her troubles — the soldiers had all blindly opened fire on it.

They were aiming at the monster, but Buffy was smack dab in the middle of the firing range. And it wasn’t handguns, no. These were big, mean, death machines. She had no choice but to stay flat on the ground and wait, hoping useless soldiers would run out of bullets soon.

Buffy started as a mighty thump made the glass panel to the arena rattle. She rolled on her side to have a better look at the window.

Spike was swinging the broken remnants of the gurney at it, trying to break the glass. And succeeding. Bulletproof glass wasn’t up to par with an ubervamp on a path toward methodical destruction.

Soldiers were screaming, Adam was roaring, bullets were zinging, but Buffy was focused on the steady thumps against the glass. When one upper corner of the window broke, Spike pried a steel tube off the gurney and wedged it through the shattered glass, turning it into a lever. He heaved, both feet firmly braced on the wall, and the protection finally tore away. He lost no time leaning inside, hand extended toward her. “Come, Slayer!”

Dodging the bullets, she jumped over the console and grabbed his hand. He pulled, but as she came face to face with him, she saw his eyes widen, sudden panic pushing the gold back as his pupils expanded.

“Down!” he yelled, pulling her roughly against him and whirling them around, his back to the control room. She saw the soldier aiming at them with his rifle, then. She watched the gun’s muzzle erupt in flames as the man fired off a slew of ammo.

She felt the impact of bullets in Spike’s back, his wide shoulders hiding her from the bullets before his momentum slammed them both to the ground. His weight nearly knocked the breath out of her. She felt more than she heard him grunt, mouth open against her neck. The gun was still rattling off and she heard more impacts inside the control room. There was a shorting noise, followed by some sizzling, and something exploded.

As she tried to catch her breath, she saw the arena door slide open. She turned her face up to Spike, who was watching the same thing, and their eyes met. They nodded. Still holding onto his hand, she got up, dragging him behind her as she dashed across the arena, ignoring the demons milling about. Once they crossed into the corridor, she spotted a door on the left and dove through it, Spike in tow.

Buffy let go of his hand and slammed the door shut, looking around. They were in some sort of locker room, with benches in the middle. She dragged one against the door, meager barricade that it was.

“Next time the MP5Ks come out to play,” wheezed Spike, “do me the pleasure of ducking, love.”

“The MP what?” she asked distractedly as she propped another bench against the door.

“Their submachine guns, ducks.” He rolled his shoulders and winced. “Bleedin’ hell, these hurt like a bitch.”

“Show me your back.”

His t-shirt was a mess, sliced to ribbons in the back and barely hanging by threads. She ripped the fabric wider to have a better look.

“You’re healing already,” she whispered, half-fascinated, her fingers splayed flat on his pale skin. His shoulder muscles twisted sluggishly, pushing the bullets out. The shells tumbled down, hitting the ground with soft plinks as his skin knitted back together. In 30 seconds flat, there was no trace of bullet wounds left.

“Well,” she groused. “That’s quite the power-up.”

Spike turned around and gestured at his t-shirt, barely hanging on his shoulders. “Felt like ripping clothes off my back, Slayer?” he joked, waggling his eyebrows like an idiot. She rolled her eyes.

He fisted the front of his T-shirt and pulled, ripping the cloth off his shoulders.

Wh—okay, what? Also, nipples. But mostly, what? Shirtless Spike had made Buffy’s brain go kerplunk. She blinked quickly, but the nipples were still there. And the abs. And the pecs. What.

Bewildered, she ogled him as he walked over to a sink and turned the faucet on, dropping the rags of his T-shirt in and soaking them. Damn. The back wasn’t half-bad either.

Spike wrung the cloth and used it to mop up the blood and gore coating his arms and his face, humming under his breath. She couldn’t see his reflection in the mirror above the sink, but she caught a glimpse of herself, mouth slightly open and staring at Spike as if he had grown a second head. A sexy one.

Her brain came back in charge and pushed the red lever labeled ‘emergency deflection’ and she heard herself blurt out: “Thank you.”

Spike closed the faucet and turned toward her with a baffled face, beads of water rolling down his chest and clinging to his nipples. She closed her eyes and counted to three.

“What for?” asked Spike, indifferent to her inner-nipple. Struggle. Inner-struggle.

“For taking the bullets,” she explained, opening her eyes and pointing at his shoulders.

“Oh, that,” ventured Spike, looking strangely awkward. He recovered quickly, shrugging and running a damp hand through his unruly hair. “Yeah, no big.”

Except yeah, big. Biggie big. He couldn’t have known for sure he was bulletproof. She gazed at his downcast eyes and she wondered. There was something different with Spike tonight, he seemed more… Well, just _more_. More anchored in reality. More vibrant. Or maybe that was just how he’d always been, she wondered as her mind flashed back to their first night. _Fight_. First fight.

“What did the serum do?” she asked as she stepped closer to examine him, trying to see if something other than his eye color had changed. He had two small perpetual-fangs, now. They were kinda cute.

“Fuck if I know.” Spike looked down at his hands and flexed his fingers. “I feel a lot stronger. Faster.”

Buffy nodded, her eyes trailing down his torso, looking at the defined muscles rippling as he moved. “You still feel like yourself?”

Spike gave her a smoldering look. “Oh, hell yeah.”

She remembered something her brain hadn’t quite processed when she’d touched his back. Her right hand shot up to his torso, palming the soft skin over his heart.

“You’re hot!” she squeaked.

Spike grinned hungrily and wrapped the tip of his tongue around a mini fang. “Why, thank you—"

“No, stupid.” She flicked her finger hard at his side with her other hand. He winced. “I mean, you’re hot to the touch. I’m hotter, but you’re not room temperature anymore.”

He furrowed his brow and he laid his hand over hers, fingers covering hers easily and comparing both their heat. In her chest, her heart did something funny. Newsflash: Spike had large hands. How come she’d never noticed? More importantly, why was she noticing now?

He chucked low and inclined his head toward her. “Nice?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow.

Buffy twisted her mouth in a wry smile. “They had one vamp, the serum made the blood boil in his veins. It wasn’t a pretty death.”

He pulled a face. “Not so nice.”

Something thumped softly in his chest. With her hand still flat over his heart, she felt it. Her eyes grew big.

“Did your heart just beat?” she asked in a hushed tone.

He was looking down at their joined hands, frowning. “I don’t think so. But something is happening.”

“What? Are you turning human?”

He looked up at her, smiling, fangs glinting and golden eyes flashing dangerously. “A very big no to that, love.”

Buffy felt a thrill go up her spine, bounce around her neck and ping straight down to bloom heatedly in her belly. A small part of her mind rolled itself into a ball and yelled _predator!_ Another part, larger, louder, stronger, shuddered in pleasure and surged to the front, rising eagerly to the challenge. She gulped.

His eyes still fastened to hers, Spike went on with a low rumble. “But I’m something in between, I guess.”

“Huh,” she contributed intelligently, sliding her hand out from under his. Her palm was getting… sweaty. Her eyes fell to his chest again, and she swiftly stepped away. She was not hot and bothered, she was just bothered. Men were not supposed to be all nipple-y like that.

Buffy started babbling about what had happened in the control room, to give herself some composure. Spike listened to her distractedly as she recounted the whole Adam debacle. At one point, he walked over to the lockers and started inspecting the first one, probably looking for a shirt. At least Buffy hoped so.

“…so I need to go back there and take that thing down before all the soldiers shoot each other and…” She gave up and turned to the maybe-ex-vampire. “What are you looking for, Spike?”

He slammed a locker door testily and moved on to the next one. “Smokes. I haven’t had one in a week. Everybody and their granny here are shot-up to the eyeballs with performance-enhancing drugs, but tobacco? No sir, that’s the Big Bad there, my body is a temple and these things will kill you.” He kept looking, slamming each door louder and ranting under his breath. “Well, I got news for you. Desecrating temples is one of my favorite pastimes, and if I don’t find a ciggy real quick, I might start killing people, chip or no.”

He stilled at that and gave her a questing glance. “Speaking of the chip, d’you know what’s its malfunction?”

Buffy shrugged. “Apparently you were able to hit non-humans all along.”

“Would’ve been nice to know last month,” Spike grimaced as he dove back in the last locker. Suddenly, his face lit up. “Yes!” he crowed, fishing out a pack of cigarettes. He shook it and a lone cig fell in his open palm. Spike stuck it happily between his lips. He kept rummaging, but whoever this locker belonged to had taken their lighter with them. He gave up and trudged back toward her, cigarette hanging indulgently from his lips.

“So,” he asked, stopping in front of her, “we take that Adam arsewipe down or what?”

“You were listening?”

He quirked his lips in a smile and the cigarette bobbed. “I can do two things at once, Slayer.”

How could he make a cigarette sexy? The devious wretch.

Buffy tried to focus. “Yeah, we take him down. If you’re still in shape?”

“Me? I’m barely getting warmed up, kitten. Let’s tag team the fucker.”

“Let’s,” she agreed as she pulled the benches away from the door. “Can you do it without singing the Twelve Slays of Christmas, though?”

“You didn’t like?” he smirked, tucking his cig behind his ear. “Pity, I’d nearly finished it, too.”

*░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░*

The arena was deserted, the control room dark and silent as they crossed it. There were stiffs everywhere, but the Slayer didn’t stop to take a gander at the butcher’s bill. More gunfire rang out down the corridor. She signaled toward it and Spike acquiesced.

Following the shouts and sounds of mayhem, they turned a corner and he got his first good look at this Adam bugger. Bollocks. Why did mad scientists always have such a hard-on for the huge monsters? Being on the small and nimble side clearly had its perks, but no. They always went for lumbering giants. _Look at my monster! He’s bigger!_

Spike scoffed. Textbook penis envy.

One of the remaining soldiers was trying to zap the thing with his taser, but it didn’t bother the cyborg. Spike realized Adam was most likely feeding on it. The Slayer must have come to the same conclusion, because she ran toward the soldier and ripped his weapon away, sending it clattering to the ground.

“Move,” she spat with a voice full of violence. In Spike’s jeans, his cock twitched at the tone. The squaddie was surely dead from the knees up though, because instead of looking afraid or mildly aroused — the two only valid reactions, really — he just looked miffed. The fop was about to retort something deluded and Spike had no patience for this.

“You,” he growled, “need to bugger off somewhere I can’t see you, and stay there.”

The goon broke in a sweat and Spike smelled fear on him. Fuck, it was good to have some mojo back.

“Everybody, clear the room,” the Slayer commanded in her best schoolmarm voice. Spike felt his cock start to thicken and grunted. What was it with him and the Slayer tonight? Too much time without a wank, probably. He hadn’t been in the mood, but he should have tossed off more in front of the cameras.

The soldiers, finally seeing the light, turned tail, and ran down the hall. Only Adam stayed, looking stonily down at the Slayer like the ugly steampunk gargoyle it was.

“Who are you?” it asked.

“The cleaning crew for the garden of Eden,” answered the Slayer, circling it slowly. “I’m here to punt you out.”

Adam didn’t react, it just slid its cold gaze to Spike.

“And you?”

Spike flicked his tongue at him. “I’m the talking snake, mate.”

He rushed the giant then, arm raised, and landed a blow in the middle of its chest. Adam didn’t even budge.

Spike staggered back, shaking his hand to try to regain feeling. Hitting concrete would have been more fun.

“You are wasting your time. My pain sensors are turned off.”

“Pain isn’t the end goal, here,” grunted the Slayer as she swung at it, a flurry of fists landing on the side of its face. She busted his lips. The cyborg didn’t even blink as dark, viscous blood ran down its chin.

Spike dove in for a hook kick, to sweep the lumbering toad off its feet. But his vision suddenly darkened and everything became hazy. He fell to his knees, fighting nausea.

Had the bugger hit him? No, it couldn’t be, he didn’t feel any pain. He could hear the Slayer yelling his name, but her voice came out distorted.

“Spike! Spike, you OK?” His eyesight was shot again, he could barely focus on her worried eyes and pinched lips when her face swam in front of him. She was shaking his shoulder, making the nausea worse.

“I’m OK,” he slurred, “go back to the fight.” He rolled out of the way, limbs shaking.

This had to be the serum. He focused on his breathing to dim the nausea. After a moment he managed to sit up. He raised his knees and he leaned his clammy brow against them. When his eyesight stabilized, he lifted his head to gaze up anxiously at the fight.

He shouldn’t have worried; the Slayer was doing a fine job by herself. If it wasn’t for the fact that the damned gargoyle couldn’t feel pain, Spike suspected the fight would already be over. But the brute was resilient.

Adam reached for the Slayer’s neck with both hands, but she grabbed at his wrists and leveled a slender foot to his chest, kicking him. He coughed blood all over her shirt.

Christ on a bike, the devastation she could lay with a single kick. Without batting an eye, the Slayer performed a 10/10 reverse roundhouse, sweeping Adam off his feet and sending him plummeting to the ground. Watching her fight gave Spike life. And a hard-on.

He was feeling better already, whatever the wave of nausea had been, it was clean over. As he got to his feet, he noticed a M'Fashnik inching toward the fight. These fuckers were always in for a bloody brawl and Spike felt inclined to indulge them most of the time, but he couldn’t let it interrupt the Slayer’s pretty dance.

He whistled, getting the demon’s attention. “Wanna rumble?” he asked it, beckoning it closer with a flip of his hand. “Come to Daddy.”

The M'Fashnik charged with a single-mindedness worthy of its kind and Spike met it upfront, stabbing his hand through its throat. He curled his fingers around the grey rings of the trachea and pulled, ripping the demon’s throat out. The great rotter toppled to the ground, gurgling weakly.

“Sorry mate, got better things to do.”

Spike ignored its death rattle and went back to watching the Slayer fight. Clinging to Adam’s back, she was punching it relentlessly.

“Need a hand, love?”

“No,” she snarled, “I’m good.” She was slamming her fist down the side of its head, caving the bone and metal in.

“That you are, honey,” drawled Spike appreciatively. “That you are.”

The breach in its skull didn’t slow Adam down, though. Most likely its brains were just for show and all the things making it go bump in the night were shoved down its chest.

“Love, I can’t hear a heart ticking on the bugger, but there’s a lot of whirring going on inside. You should probably just pull everything out.”

“Got it.”

Buffy stepped down in front of the cyborg, and dove her hand inside its chest. She pulled out a couple of black boxes covered in electrical grease and congealed blood and shucked them aside. Spike jumped in the fray and caught both of Adam’s arms as it was about to slam them down on the Slayer’s head. She plunged her hand back inside and this time, pulling hard, she dragged out a bright green cylinder, the source of the whirring sound.

Adam finally showed something akin to panic. “No…”

It was almost poetic, the creature gaining emotions as it died. The Slayer was not moved by cheap whimsy, though. “May you rest in pieces, forever and ever, amen,” she said as she threw the device away.

The colossus went limp and Spike let go, watching the body sprawling out at their feet. Buffy raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“Well, that was anticlimactic.”

“Still,” Spike interjected, “good fight.”

She shrugged and looked around at the deserted battleground. Somewhere distantly, a siren was wailing. “I think the whole base got evacuated.”

“Yeah, we probably should split, too.”

“You don’t say?” she snarked. “I have to grab my things from the grunts’ locker room. I’ll make a sweep to make sure no one got stuck under a demon.”

“You do you, Slayer.”

“I’ll be back quick, wait for me here. Don’t do anything.”

Spike waved her away distractedly, already checking the hall for places where a lighter could reasonably be found. On the far end, there was a row of empty cells, some wooden crates stacked near the exit, and a rack of military clothes. Heh, maybe he’d be lucky.

Five minutes later, his patience was growing thinner than a red cunt hair. He’d searched nearly the whole rack, but he’d turned up a big fat nothing. “Goddammit,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “don’t make me set this place on fire just to light my smoke, because I swear I fucking will.”

As he neared the end of the rack, some movement in the cells caught his eye. These weren’t empty after all, he realized when he spotted a fox-like creature inside. He’d heard of black Kitsunes, but he’d never seen one. What was their demonic gimmick, again? He snapped his fingers, remembering. These made fire!

Spike crouched in front of the cage, looking at the demon’s intelligent face. It was eerily pretty, with its silver eyes and its muzzle tipped in white. It was young, barely more than a cub, but maybe it could work.

“Hey, kiddo. You old enough to make fire yet?”

The cub tilted its head.

Spike tried to rack his brain for his meager Japanese. “Fire, mate. Err… _Kitsunebi?”_

The Kitsune bounced excitedly to his feet, yipping. Eh, Spike was ready to put that down as a yes.

“Say, if I open the door, would you lend me a bit of your fire to light my cig?”

The cub wagged its tail, pale tongue lolling. Spike felt cautiously optimistic.

“Wait a tic, half-pint. Old Spike’s on it.”

He walked to the plastic keylock and ripped the cover off. He glanced at the pup while meddling with the wires. “What were you doing in Cali anyway? Err… _Doushite_ California?

“Holiday!” it yapped in a heavy Japanese accent.

“Bloody shame, mate,” commiserated Spike. After some more prodding, the panel shorted and the door slid open. “There you go.”

The Kitsune gamboled out and Spike knelt down to rub its soft ears. “Good to be out, eh?”

It yipped contentedly.

“Now, about that fire,” Spike said, grabbing the cig secured behind his ear and presenting it to the fuzzball. The demon sucked in an enthusiastic breath and opened its maw wide. Spike saw the fireball form and expand until it was bigger than the fox itself.

“Oh, shit!”

Clutching his precious ciggie close, Spike dove for the floor, barely escaping the stream of pale blue foxfire that shot across the room. When things quieted down, he slowly raised his head.

Huh. Foxfire was some Napalm-grade shit. The clothes rack behind him was burning up, flames licking at the wooden crates stacked in the corner. Spike swiveled his head back toward the Kitsune. The fox sat on its rump with a sheepish look, softly hiccupping as smoke rose from its chops.

“Went a little overboard, chap?”

“Sorry…” it whined as its mobile face expressed abject misery.

“Ah, don’t worry,” Spike consoled it, patting its flanks. “I warned ‘em I’d set the place on fire anyway. Now haul your furry arse out of here mate, exit’s that way,” he added, pointing to the corridor behind the burning crates.

The demon seemed to understand him just fine this time around and hared off to the exit. The fire was growing strong, thick curtains of smoke obscured most of the hall.

Holding his cigarette precautionarily between his trembling fingers, Spike approached the roaring inferno to light it. He was going to savor the shit out of this smoke. He could already feel the taste on his tongue.

A huge Saurus warrior came out of nowhere through the smokescreen and blindly rammed Spike aside. The violent blow knocked the cigarette out of his hand. It tumbled into the flames where it instantly caught fire.

“Fucking hell! My cig!”

Spike roared and caught up with the beast in a couple of nimble bounds. Landing on its back, he punched a hole through its thick, scaly neck with his bare fist. Rooting around, he finally located the spine and grabbed at it, wrenching it viciously sideways. As the dead demon stumbled to the ground, Spike landed beside its carcass and looked at his hand covered with ichor and spinal fluid.

“Well, this is nice and all, but it won’t give me my ciggy back.”

Then the wooden crates started exploding.

*░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░*

Buffy grabbed her bag in a jumble, she’d barely finished shoving the contents of her locker into it when a series of explosions rocked the building.

Mouth open in surprise, she looked wildly around. “Spike,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

She ran back toward the hall, coughing from the acrid smoke already permeating everything. The emergency sprinklers turned on, but they didn’t do much except spread the soot around in a greasy film all over her skin.

“Spike!” she hollered as she approached the hall.

“Here!” came a voice and she turned her head just in time to see Spike vault through the flames, bounding toward her.

“I leave you alone for five minutes and you set the place on fire?”

“It wasn’t me!” he protested, hands raised in a failed bid for innocence.

She glowered at him, fists on her hips.

Another explosion, much closer, almost sent them both flat on their backs. Coughing and blinking the smoke away, Buffy felt her heart skip a beat when she realized that the exit had caved in.

“You buried us inside, Spike!” she shrieked, frantic.

“Don’t panic, I know another way out.”

They ran through the flames to the far end of the hall, back to the control room, as the sprinklers kept raining down. Once they reached the arena, Spike stopped there to inspect the ceiling.

“Come, Slayer.” He propped his hands in front of him in a makeshift step ladder. “Get on my shoulders. There’s a trapdoor just there,” he added, jutting his chin at the panel directly over their head. “I think it leads back to the cages where most vampires are held. I know how to get us out from there.”

Buffy didn’t question him, she just swung her bag over her shoulder and clambered up. She started pushing and pulling at the ceiling panel, which needed some convincing to open. Thankfully, Slayer strength was a good argument.

She punched the trapdoor off its hinges and heaved herself up through the ceiling. Spike just leaped, clearing 10 feet upward without an afterthought. _Gummi Spike,_ her brain sang, _bouncing here and there and everywhere._

Spike took off and she scrambled after him, doing her best to catch up. She _so_ didn’t want to die here, singing an ode to Spike set to the Gummi Bears tune. He led her through a series of twists and turns until the white corridors melded into an underground gallery. Behind them, the rock was shaking with new, worryingly close deflagrations. She felt as if the whole Initiative was going to explode.

How many bombs were stored there, again? She knew she should have listened during induction day.

At the end of the tunnel, Spike was straining against a door with a handwheel. Buffy came to an abrupt halt, nearly plastered against him.

“Hurry, hurry!” she breathed in panic.

“It’s stuck,” panted Spike, his wet fingers sliding on the wheel.

Somewhere far away, but much too close for Buffy’s comfort, there was a ‘whoomph’ of displaced air, and the ground beneath them shook. Fear seized her. She gabbed a tail of her shirt and wrapped it around the wheel to gain more traction. Her fingers laced around Spikes and they finally got the handwheel to budge. They cranked it together, bodies straining until the door creaked open.

A column of fire was surging down the hall behind them.

“Incoming!” yelled Spike as he tumbled outside. He grabbed her by the front of her shirt, heaving her out of the way just in time as a tongue of fire came roaring out, so close she felt the heat scorch her neck. She fell on top of Spike, limbs akimbo. She gasped for air and coughed, her lungs unused to the sudden crispness.

She rolled off and got up, wheezing. They were in the middle of the forest. She could see the night sky peeking through the tall trees.

Dense black smoke was coming out of the door. Beside her, Spike jumped to his feet and whooped loudly.

“Yeah! That’s what I call going out with a bang!”

She was still in the process of rolling her eyes at him, hard, when he grabbed her arm, whirled her around, and planted a big fat victory kiss on her dazed mouth.

It was just a peck, really. He was already pulling back, his fingers slipping out of her singed hair, grinning like a goof. But something shifted. For half a second, before he’d retreated, she had leaned into the kiss.

And he’d noticed it.

_Step away!_ her mind was screaming at her feet, but the orders weren’t getting through. She stayed there, gawping at him as an idiot and Spike paused. The easy laughter melting out of his eyes, leaving something hungry and calculating instead.

He stepped forward.

Buffy’s feet finally got the delayed message and she managed to take a somehow panicked step back.

“Spike…” she tried to make her voice low and threatening. It came out mildly husky, her throat still sore from the smoke. She watched the corners of Spike’s eyes crinkle as he smiled debauchedly.

“Slayer,” he purred.

He took another step forward and she backed away again, their feet gliding in a slow tango on the forest floor until her back hit something. A trunk. Crapola.

Dropping her bag to the ground, she raised her hands placatingly. “Let’s not get carried away, Spike.”

“Oh, but I’m not going anywhere, love.”

Yeah, clearly he wasn’t. That was the problem.

Buffy gulped.

This was not about fighting. If it were, she’d be up in his face right now, oh yeah. But his face kinda was the place she wanted to avoid at all cost. _Don’t look at his eyes_ was running on a loop between her ears. _Don’t look at his mouth either, at the lopsided smile curving his lips around a glinting fang, don’t…_

“Slayer…” Spike cooed, taking one step closer.

She tried to focus lower, on his chin… But she got sidetracked by the curve of his bare shoulder, the dip of his clavicle. Why were these at eye-level? Where were her heels when she needed them? Buffy had questions, and as usual, the universe had no answer.

So her eyes kept dipping lower, to the smooth expanse of his pecs, and to these damn nipples again.

Spike chuckled.

“Give us a kiss, Slayer. A real one.”

The thing was, she kinda wanted to. She wouldn’t, of course. But damn. Did she want to. She gulped again, her eyes jumping back to Spike’s.

Shit. That had been a mistake. As she watched his golden eyes shine behind hooded lids, she felt her resolve crumble. How did he still smell nice, after spending the evening wading about in demon gore? Sure, the sprinklers had washed it away, but she was pretty sure she just smelled of smoke and sweat. But Spike? He smelled intoxicating. She wondered how his tongue would taste. The thought sent a shudder straight to her crotch.

OK, so maybe one kiss. Would it really be so terrible? Not that she wanted to kiss Spike, no. It was probably the adrenaline still coursing through her body, making her crave things she didn’t really want. Like kisses and stuff. Would one kiss it really hurt?

Great. Her brain had skipped Denial and Anger and had gone straight to Bargaining. She could already see Acceptance looming on the horizon.

Spike apparently spotted it too, because he gave her a quick wink and dove for her lips.

Her previous question was answered: he tasted as good as he smelled. Buffy moaned low against his lips and deepened the kiss, hungry for more. He obliged, and the first sweep of his tongue against hers made her whole body shudder and her sex clench. It was _that_ good. She buried her hands in his hair, damp and soft, the curls twirling around her fingertips, and she sucked at the tip of his tongue.

*░° ***** ° **’°•** ♥ **•°’** ° ***** °░*

Fuck, he knew it. The Slayer kissed like she fought. All out, nails digging against his scalp and mouth taking possession of his tongue. She had her back against the tree, but he was the one under attack. He slid his hands under her shirt and cupped her breasts. Bugger, she wasn’t wearing a bra.

He moaned greedily in her mouth as he thumbed her already hardening nipples. She tore her mouth away from his and he half-expected a slap, but she just let her head fall back against the trunk as she moaned heatedly, lips glistening. She arched further into his touch, and he rolled the hard nipples in the center of his palms.

He left a trail of open-mouthed kisses down her neck, tasting the salt of her skin. She made tiny whiny noises that were going straight to his balls. Hard as nails, cock aching, he thrust against her soft stomach to take the edge of the pressure off. She let out a low whine, hooking one leg around his calf, seeking more friction. Her hands moved to his shoulders, gripping him tight.

Spike let go of her breasts and thumbed her chin to angle her mouth down for another kiss. He already craved the things she did with her little pointy tongue. He dove for her pliant lips, pushing a hand past the waistband of her military fatigues and cupping her pussy through her panties. God almighty, they were drenched.

She stiffened. Ah. Good ole virtue swooping back in, then? Spike let go of her lips and opened his eyes to better read her expression.

*░° ***** ° **’°•** ♥ **•°’** ° ***** °░*

‘Just one kiss’ had apparently gotten way out of hand. And into her pants.

Well, well, well. What do?

Her brain didn’t provide any sensible answer since it was lodged deep, deep in the sands of denial. Spike wasn’t helping, looking at her with his molten-gold eyes. Ugh. It was such a good look on him, it wasn’t fair. Why was her life so difficult?

He smiled, the jerk. “You’re glorious, Slayer.”

Something blossomed in her chest. Something warm and fragile, fluttering. Under his hungry gaze, her whole body felt too hot despite the cold of the night, her skin too tight. She shuddered as she thrust her hips forward, pressing into his fingers. When they started moving against her, soft and almost reverent, her eyes slowly slid closed.

Buffy had the fleeting, ludicrous thought that this morning, her horoscope— _Capricorns: Ego will be your downfall today_ —had been right. She briefly felt like giggling, but Spike captured her lips again in a searing kiss and she kissed him back, reveling at the sensations. At the taste and the feel of his tongue against hers, at the slick caress of his fingers as he twisted past her panties and finally touched her bare skin. She moaned in his mouth and he kissed her harder. His fingers increased their pressure against her and behind her closes eyelids, she saw stars.

Her hands hungrily glided down his shoulders to explore his chest. Spike’s skin was almost warm to the touch, and so, so soft. Her fingers trailed over his flat nipples—finally!, nails scratching softly. He growled in her mouth and abruptly slid a finger, then two inside her. She hissed against his lips at the feel of it, hitching her leg higher to his hip to give him better access. Her kisses grew sloppy and feverish, and she wanted more: his tongue curled around hers, his fingers deeper inside her.

He was swiping his hand up and down, alternating two fingers into her sex and deft, upward strokes to brush against her clit, then back again to plunge inside her, making her whine needily against his lips. OK, seesawing like this? Very nice. She was _so_ remembering that for later use. But she pushed the plans of later to the back of her mind and lost herself in the high-octane of now.

*░° ***** ° **’°•** ♥ **•°’** ° ***** °░*

She was fucking his fingers, making the most obscene noises, and Spike was going crackers. Checking the trunk above the Slayer to make sure there were no low branches in the way, he knocked her knees aside with his and slid his hands under her thighs. He hoisted her up all the way to his face, hooking her legs over his shoulders. She yelped in surprise.

“Spike, what —”

Steadying her with one hand, he ripped a hole in the crotch of her baggy pants with the other, making quick work of her panties as well. Her protests died as he spread her open with two fingers, diving into her cunt with his nose and tongue. Oh, fuck yeah, she tasted so damn good. Smoky and iodized, like a good Islay Scotch. She was warm and heady, and he buried himself there, tongue hard at work.

Her hands flew to his hair, crushing him against her, steadying herself between the trunk and his body. Mouth curling into a smile, he delved his tongue deeper in her, rubbing the crest of his nose against her clit.

Now that she didn’t need his hand on her hip for balance anymore, he let go and quickly unbuckled his belt, tearing his fly open and palming his straining prick eagerly with a deep moan.

Buffy bucked against him, thighs scissoring around his ears. He growled and dove his tongue greedily in her, running the tip of his nose up and down her clit in a quick rhythm, a counterpoint to the frantic pace he was pumping his cock at. The thought of sliding his prick in her wet heat made him so hard it hurt.

He felt the tension on her thighs and the tightening of her cunt around his tongue. When she spasmed, he barely gave her climax time to peak before he dragged her down back to him.

Her heels were digging at the small of his back and his hands were under her thighs, supporting her. He hoisted her flush against him, sliding his aching cock against her shuddering cunt.

“Yeah?” he asked her, eyes intent, as he glided against her taut body, his prick parting her sodden lips.

She was looking at him dazedly, tendrils of golden hair stuck on her open mouth. She blew them away and he felt the caress of her breath on his neck. Fuck. She’d be the death of him. He growled, pressing the head of his cock at her entrance. He could feel her heat, her wetness sucking him in. It was driving him barking.

She moaned and nodded, “Yeah.”

He angled his cock and surged into her with one swift roll of his hips. He nearly went cross-eyed at the feel of her.

*░° ***** ° **’°•** ♥ **•°’** ° ***** °░*

Buffy bit her lip and flung her head back, whimpering as he spread her open. Having his length inside of her made every feeling starker, her pleasure sharper. She could only open her mouth in surprise, as waves and waves of pleasure crashed over her. Oh my god, how, why did it feel like a mini orgasm every time he slid in her, every time he buried his thick dick in her? Wasn’t the pleasure supposed to recede after an orgasm? It just kept growing. She frantically sucked air in, feeling faint.

She blindly grabbed at the tree behind her, hands desperately clawing for purchase. When she managed to dig her fingers into the bark, she hauled herself up and let gravity take her down, sinking on his dick, meeting his every thrust with wanton ardor. She looked at him, eyes hooded and mouth open.

Each powerful surge of his length in her swollen sex was skewering her with more pleasure. He brought his face down to her chest and started tonguing at a nipple through her shirt. The pressure behind the damp, rough cotton was driving her wild.

She was spluttering incoherent noises, yesses and mores, but Spike kept a steady pace. And she knew, somehow she _knew_ he was still holding out on her. She wanted more, damnit! She grabbed him by the hair, digging her fingers in his soft curls and pulled hard, wrenching his face up toward her.

“Fuck me harder, Spike.”

At first, he looked dumbstruck. But his pupils expanded and his dick swelled even more inside her. She clenched reflexively around him. With a growl, he plowed violently in her.

_Yes._ Every slam of his hips against hers felt like a burst of ecstasy, each stronger than the last. Her hands back against the bark, she arched into him, her body wracked by pleasure.

“Mo—”

He rammed mercilessly against her, cutting her off. She gritted her teeth and sucked in a breath. “More!”

He obliged, grunting against her throat.

She tensed up, legs shaking, desperate to reach for something that each thrust of his hips seemed to promise her. She clamped hard around him as he jackhammered her, her body spasming with need.

*░° ***** ° **’°•** ♥ **•°’** ° ***** °░*

He fucked her with strained grunts now, really putting his back into it. This was _not_ the easy fuck he had been expecting. It was a fight, and judging by how things were going, one he wasn’t sure he could win.

She was strangling his cock with her sweet, vicious cunt, and he had to bite his tongue to keep himself from coming. But nothing egged Spike on like a good fight, and sod if this fuck-fight wasn’t legendary. He was shagging her so hard the pleasure nearly blinded him, but he was determined to make her come again, even if he had to break his own cock to do so.

With a roar he surged back in her, making the tree creak and shake, and clamped his mouth over her nipple. His fangs closed on the damp material of her t-shirt, piercing through and scratching at her delicate skin.

The Slayer stiffened and came with a wail. As he tasted the barest hint of copper, Spike’s eyes rolled back in orbits and he let himself come, rutting against her desperately. Pleasure and haggard relief flooded through him until he could barely stand.

His knees buckled from under him and they slid down the trunk until they lay sprawled over the roots in a tangle of limbs.

The Slayer was trying to catch her breath, lips puffy and hair sticking to her sweat-drenched brow. What a wondersome sight. Inside her, his cock twitched, clamoring for an encore. The rest of him just wanted to roll over and cry uncle. The whole day had been draining.

Spike blinked to clear the cobwebs.

"Now I really need a smoke," he grunted.

In his lap, he felt the Slayer tense. She hissed and gave him an affronted look.

“Wha—” he started hazily, but she was already cocking her head back to headbutt him. He caught her brow just before it could connect with his nose, fingers splayed over the top of her head.

Underneath his hand, he could see her eyes flashing. Whatever foot he’d put in his mouth, he needed to unfuck the situation. He couldn’t deal with that right now.

“Hold the violence for a tick, Slayer.” He slid his hand to the side of her head, threading his fingers in her hair. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” Pulling gently, he brought her forward to kiss her damp brow. “You’re quite something.”

*░° ***** ° **’°•** ♥ **•°’** ° ***** °░*

His lips were soft and balmy against her damp skin, his breath tickling her hair. She was still dancing between anger and hurt, but his kiss soothed her a bit. He swallowed once, twice, and she watched his adam’s apple bob up and down. Mh. Spike had a nice neck.

He cradled her, peppering soft kisses down her face. He caught her mouth in a languid kiss, all sweeping tongue and firm lips.

Not that she complained, but how come Spike was better at afterglow cuddles than Parker had been? Way-way better, she thought as Spike deepened the kiss. OK, this had to stop or she’d start wanting another go and… Wait. Was he getting hard again?

She shifted a bit, to make sure, and he moaned against her, bucking his hips to bury himself deeper inside her. Oh yes, he was hard. She clutched at his shoulders and rocked against him, moaning and sucking at his lower lip.

After a beat, Spike pulled back. She blinked, they were brow against brow, noses touching. His gaze was soft and warm. A distant warning started blaring in her mind. His eyes had been soft like that during Willow’s spell.

His lids slid closed and he leaned forward to kiss her again, fingers burrowing in her hair.

“Buffy…”

She put the warning bells on mute and lost herself in the kiss, digging her fingers in his soft hair.

Behind her, a twig broke, loud in the quiet night. She felt the demonic presence immediately.

Buffy bolted up and whirled around toward the origin of the dark and looming menace, ready to fight. Spike was making disgruntled speech noises, but she ignored him; the Slayer had a creature of the night to fight.

Except said creature was dark alright but on the small and fluffy side. Oh gosh, whatever it was, it was terribly cute.

“Is that a fox?” she asked Spike who was sitting up, fastening his jeans with an annoyed face.

“In a way. It’s a Kitsune, a Japanese fox demon.” He glared at the fuzzy thing, wagging his finger. “What are you still doing here? I told you to hightail it.”

The fox-thing laid its cute ears low and whined pitifully. Buffy gasped as her heart broke a little.

Spike was not immune either. He bent down to scratch the dark beast behind the ears.

“What’s your moniker, critter?”

The fox only tilted its head this way and that at him.

“Bear with me, last time I was in Japan was in ‘64. What’s your name? Na _… Namae?”_

“Kokuko Hoshinotama no Kongoro,” the fox-thing answered solemnly, sitting on its haunches.

Spike stared.

“Yeah, not gonna memorize your whole demon clan name, mate. All right if I call you Kon?”

“Kon!” it bounded enthusiastically and headbutted Spike, who laughed and ruffled its ears.

Buffy reached for her bag and grabbed a scrunchie to tie her hair back in a tight ponytail. Yuck. It felt coarse under her fingers.

She sighed. Spike got a demonic upgrade and a cute fluffy sidekick while all she got was singed hair and ripped pants? Unfair. So, so unfair. Well, she had a couple of mind-blowing orgasms, true. But that didn’t count. Did it?

_You just had sex with Spike_ , caroled a grating voice at the back of her mind. _Spike put his love sausage in your va-jay-jay!_

“Urgh!”

“What?” Spike got up and tilted his head at her, his golden eyes puzzled.

“Nothing,” she snapped. She needed to get home and change. Things were squelchy, down there. And drafty.

From the state of his eyebrows, Spike was about to retort something crass, but his features contorted brusquely. He stood there, panic etched on his face as he inhaled sharply a couple of times. She felt ice-cold fear seize her chest. The serum…

“Spi—” she took half a step forward, but before she could reach him, Spike’s whole body shuddered, and he sneezed violently.

False alarm. Spike was not dying, Spike was spraying gross, gross snot all over her. Yeesh.

“Ew, Spike.” She needed a shower. _Now_.

“What…”

He looked flummoxed.

“What, what?” she asked distractedly, gingerly patting her face. OK, no snot. Phew.

“Why did I sneeze?”

“Duh, because you’re cold?” she deadpanned.

“Cold? What is this shit? Am I going to catch the sniffles now?”

“If you stay outside half-naked in December? Probably.” She dug in her bag and pulled her coat out, shrugging it on. “You should go to Giles’s before you catch your death. Have a hot shower or something.”

“Or a bath,” Spike groused. “Finally use that bloody bathtub the intended way.” He turned toward the fox, sitting quietly by the tree. “Come, Kon. I’m sure old Rupes can find fried tofu for you.”

“Spike?” she ventured as he was about to pick the fox up.

“Mh?” He looked at her, eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

She pursed her lip. “I’m… I’m glad you didn’t die, tonight. Or, you know, got turned into a monster.”

He straightened up, muscles rippling softly. “Some would argue I’m a bit of a monster, love.”

“Yeah, but that,” she waved vaguely toward him, “I can deal with.”

He gave her a boyish smile and stepped closer, tucking an escapee lock of hair behind her ear.

“Going soft on me, Slayer?” His voice was low and rough. She shivered, despite her coat.

“Maybe,” she shrugged. “But just today. After all, it’s probably Christmas already.”

Spike snaked his hand behind her head and drew her lips to his for a sweet, chaste kiss. He pulled back, giving her a lopsided grin. She scowled.

“What? I’m just getting into the Christmas spirit. We’re in a forest. There’s bound to be mistletoe somewhere.”

“We’re in a forest,” she retorted, “there’s bound to be tree branches large enough for me to stake you, ubervamp or not.”

He laughed then and winked at her. “Happy Christmas, Slayer.”

As he left, he picked up his stupid song. Off-key.

_“On the twelfth day of Christmas_

_My true love gave to me…”_

She smiled, despite herself.

_“Twelve squaddies fighting_

_Eleven demons roaring_

_Ten vamps a-dusting…”_

Someday, she’d kill him.

_“Nine bombs a-blowing_

_Eight stakes a-flying_

_Seven guns a-firing…”_

Not today, though, it _was_ Christmas.

_“Six heads a-popping_

_Five heel kicks_

_Four stabbing blows…”_

But yeah.

_“Three French kisses_

_Two little fangs_

_And a Kitsune on my shoulder! ”_

Someday.

_“Fa-la-la-la-la La-la La-laaa…”_

░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** ° **░** ° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░

19th JANUARY 2000

*░° ***** ° **’°•** ♥ **•°’** ° ***** °░*

With a yell of rage, Buffy threw the white plastic stick across the room and watched it shatter against the tiled wall. _Nice, Buffy. Look at how it doesn’t help_. Even with the damn thing broken, the result was still there. She dropped her head between her hands and heaved a sigh. Why. How. She had been forgetting so many things that Christmas week, had she forgotten to take her… Ugh. She must have.

She should have known. Nothing nice could happen to her without some sort of cosmic backlash. And doing that test on her birthday surely had jinxed it, it was all her fau—.

No.

Her closed fists tightened, Pinking-of-You lacquered nails digging in her palms. This was all _Spike’s_ fault. She was going to kill his Initiative-enhanced vampirical ass.

He was probably at Giles’s, as usual. Her Watcher was fascinated, running tests on the man-pire, and Spike liked it there because it was warm. Right. He wanted warmth? She’d rain hellfire and brimstone down on his stupid ass.

She stormed out of her bathroom without a backward glance for the broken pregnancy test, the two clear blue lines taunting her.

░° ***** ° **’°•** ♥ **•°’** ° ***** ° **░** ° ***** ° **’°•** ♥ **•°’** ° ***** °░

The End

*░° ***** ° **’°•** ♥ **•°’** ° ***** °░*

Bonus ~~track~~ crack for the peeps who stuck around to the bitter end:

[Soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TNTkpTSLdPk)

Spike wriggled deeper in the Watcher’s couch, Kon draped over his chest. The furry demon was the only warm thing around in this damn flat. Spike was so, so cold. The last time he’d felt that cold was back when he had been human, in London. Brrr.

He dreamt of scalding hot warming pans, buried under the sheets. These things were surely extinct by now, but there had to be a modern iteration. Cold feet were the timeless curse of mankind, after all.

As Spike was slowly starting to doze off, finally warm enough, the front door opened and a gust of cold wind swept in, jerking him bright awake. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he hollered toward the entrance, “Close the bloody door!”

Rupert harrumphed. “Do you allow me the leisure of stepping in my own flat, Spike? And—”

The Watcher stopped dead in his diatribe. “What in god’s name is this sweltering heat? Have you fiddled with the thermostat again?”

“The flat was as cold as the grave,” grunted Spike, trying to bury himself under the couch’s cushions.

“I’m pretty sure I set the thermostat on 66 this morning before leaving, which is plenty enough.”

_Plenty enough when you wrap your arse in three layers of tweed, maybe._ Spike heard a shuffling of feet across the room as the Watcher moved closer to the thermostat. “72?!” came the indignant yelp. “Are you pulling my leg?”

‘Are you pulling my leg?’ mouthed Spike silently at Kon, mocking the irate tone. The little Kitsune wagged its tail happily, ears flattened back on his skull. “You like it when I’m making silly faces at you, heh?” Spike asked him, rubbing a soft ear between his thumb and index.

Back in the kitchen, Rupert was still grumbling. “Although you are quite content to encroach on my couch right now, something tells me you’ll head for the hills as soon as the weather thaws. And who will be stuck with the exorbitant power bill, then? If you are cold, Spike, put a knit jumper on. I can lend you one!"

Spike craned his head around the armrest, glaring at the man.

"Me? In one of your jumpers? Are you trying to snooker my sex appeal?"

Rupert threw him a withering look and stomped upstairs.

“Oi, Rupes. If you’re going to turn down the thermostat, can you bring me a blankie? One of the snuggly ones?”

Kon yawned and settled back on his flank, nose buried in the crook of Spike’s neck.

“Rupes?”

░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** ° **░** ° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░

° **░** ° ***** ° **’°•.** ○ **.•°’** ° ***** °░°

Now, shoo. I need to close the place up.

**Author's Note:**

> The rest? Ah, well. It’s a story for another day :D
> 
> Who knows? Maybe Spike and Buffy fight a lot. Maybe they have sex a lot, too.  
> Maybe Buffy decides to keep it, for whatever strange reason. Maybe she decides to keep Spike as well. What can I say, that woman is a saint.   
> Maybe paternity anchors Spike more than a soul ever would. Maybe Buffy accepts that he can love.  
> Maybe the Monks of Destiny hide the Key in the sprog. Maybe not. Either way, Buffy tears Glory’s head off before the Hell God even tries to lay a finger on the kid’s soft brown curls.  
> Maybe no Death portal, no resurrection, no First of Evil, no grand sacrifice on either side. Maybe just compromises and concessions. And the occasional Apocalypse lurking and loitering sure, but what’s the end of the World when you’ve got a toddler to keep happy? Heh.  
> Fa la la la and a murder partridge in a pear tree!


End file.
